fidélité
by Cora Clavia
Summary: His particular brand of selfless, determined loyalty is something she's never experienced. Fraser/Thatcher, S2.


Set earlyish season 2, pre-ATQH.

* * *

After a thoroughly unenjoyable meeting with some very unhappy law enforcement representatives from North, Central and South America, Meg Thatcher finally arrives back at the consulate, wondering if there's a threshold of frustration past which it's legal to slap people at will.

It's not entirely the fault of Peru and Mexico, to be fair. Her day wouldn't have started quite so badly if Constable Fraser hadn't come racing into the consulate three minutes late, having gotten delayed because he was helping poor starving children cross the street. Or rescuing a handicapped bunny. While telling someone an Inuit legend. Or something. And as usual, he walked into her office, apologetic, head hanging. He could probably just punish himself at this point. She's running out of creative ways to make his life miserable. And no dry cleaning today, which left her with just one option: the consular equivalent of the stocks.

To his credit, Fraser's still standing motionless on sentry duty as she steps onto the sidewalk. He looks like a statue. Except the statue would probably be less stiff.

She actually flinches when suddenly he moves.

His eyes flick over the scene, the street, her, and without a single warning, he breaks his stance and lunges at her, tackling her indecorously to the ground.

Before she can even form the question _Have you gone insane, Constable?_ the world around them explodes in gunshots and breaking glass.

Meg squeezes her eyes shut. She's pinned down securely on her stomach, her body covered by the long, muscular, heavy frame of her deputy, his hands shielding her neck and the back of her head. She can hear the chatter of guns, loud voices, bystanders screaming, but all she can focus on is Fraser.

His voice comes from just beside her head. "Ma'am. Are you all right?"

How is his voice so steady? Her heart is hammering against her chest. "I'm fine."

"Good."

He doesn't move, so she can't. She hears tires squealing, sirens in the distance. More gunshots, further away this time.

Fraser finally sits up, scanning the area quickly before reaching to pull her to her feet.

"Please come with me, Inspector."

He's brisk, all business as he hurries her back into the consulate, still shielding her from the street with his body, his hand at her back. He doesn't snap out of it until the door shuts firmly behind them, and Meg finally takes a shaky deep breath, turning back to him.

"Sir, are you injured? I apologize if in my haste, I -"

"Fraser - you're bleeding -"

She cuts off that ridiculous apologetic babble, reaching for his sleeve. Blood is soaking into the frayed serge, darker against the scarlet fabric.

"Oh." He seems surprised, wincing as she prods his arm. "I didn't realize. Probably just a graze."

He _didn't realize he got shot_. She just doesn't understand him.

But Fraser's completely nonplussed, unbuckling his belt, unbuttoning his tunic. Meg clears her throat. "I'll, uh, get the first aid kit."

"That's really not necessary, ma'am. I can -"

"Fraser. Go to the kitchen. I'll be there in a minute."

She's in the hallway when she looks down at herself. His blood has soaked into her jacket, too.

When she gets to the kitchen, his tunic is draped over the back of his chair, his braces are down, and he's trying to tug off his bloody undershirt one-handed without jarring his injured arm too badly. It's not going well.

"Do you need a hand?"

He appears to be searching desperately for the ability to say _no_, but finally looks up at her with a piteous expression. "I would appreciate that, ma'am."

Meg pulls the bottom of his shirt up, her fingers brushing against his ribs. She finally gets the shirt over his head, leaving him bare-chested, his arm covered in blood.

"Ma'am?"

There's uncertainty in his voice. She realizes she's just been staring.

"That's - it's a lot of blood."

"It looks worse than it is, ma'am."

She swallows, forcing herself back to reality. "Here, let me -"

She wets a paper towel and starts wiping the blood away. The gunshots are still ringing in her head. Working at a desk for Legal in Ottawa never prepared her for this.

"Excuse me, Inspector - are you all right?"

She freezes. "What?"

"Your hands are shaking."

Meg takes in a breath. "Oh. Yes. Sorry."

"It's all right, ma'am. Probably just adrenaline."

He reaches up and covers her hand with his good one, looking up at her with those guileless eyes. Her breath catches.

"Inspector. It's all right."

It's not all right. His right arm is soaked with blood.

She resumes cleaning his arm, mostly because if she doesn't do something she's afraid she'll crack. "How did you know? I had no idea what was happening."

She's a commissioned officer, an inspector, one of the youngest and one of the first females, and this backwoods semi-wild man who's still just a constable saved her life because he realized what was happening.

Without his quick thinking and sharp reflexes, she might be dead.

He rattles off some long-winded explanation of cars changing speeds and wind and humming noises that Meg doesn't really follow. Fraser's sort of a savant in terms of observation. It's irritating most of the time. Until today, when this Sherlock Holmes of the tundra ended up saving her life.

He may be her subordinate, but suddenly she's not sure she's his superior officer. Not really.

Ovitz comes running in, his face panicked as he sees blood on her. "Inspector? The police are here. Are you hurt?"

"Fraser is. I'm fine."

The paramedics are right at Ovitz's heels, and immediately they come to check Fraser's arm. She steps back and lets them do their job while she goes to her office to take off her bloody jacket and pull herself together.

* * *

The lunch hour passes in a blur of police reports and statements. Meg doesn't see Fraser until hours later, after Vecchio and his colleagues have thoroughly checked out the building and its surroundings. There are still a few news vans out front, and she's loath to leave the building while they're hovering.

It's finally quiet when she heads for his closet-turned-office. The door's open, and she pauses for second. Fraser's sitting at his desk, reading something. His tunic and bloody white shirt are gone; he must keep a spare white undershirt here, because now he's wearing a clean one; it's short-sleeved, revealing the thick white bandage on his arm. His wolf, as usual, is curled up in the corner, half-asleep; the animal looks up as she leans in, then settles down and shuts his eyes again.

She taps at the open door and Fraser immediately springs to his feet, wincing as he hits his knee on his desk. "Sir?"

"At ease." He eyes her warily, clearly trying to figure out what exactly she means. "Sit, constable. You've earned it."

"Thank you, ma'am." He settles back down in his chair, still watching her. "I apologize for my state of dress, but my tunic -"

"No, no. I know." She was there, after all. She folds her arms over her chest. "How are you feeling?"

"Quite well, ma'am. The paramedics said it should heal up nicely."

"Good."

"Did the police find the shooter?"

She shakes her head. "No. They asked what I noticed. But I didn't see anything, really."

"I'm afraid I didn't either. I'm sorry for not catching the license pl-"

"Constable."

He stops, sheepish. "Yes, sir."

"Stop apologizing. You saved my life."

Fraser's mouth opens, and if possible, he looks even more sheepish. "I was just doing my job, Inspector."

That still sounds like an apology. "I just - realized that I haven't actually said this yet. So. Thank you, Fraser."

The words are so pale, so utterly not enough. Fraser's beaming at her like some kind of puppy who's been scratched on the ears and told he's a good boy, and she suddenly, violently hates herself. She's spent her entire time in Chicago purposely making his life miserable. He's never once complained, never objected, simply apologized and accepted every indignity. He's unlike anyone she's ever worked with. And today he took a bullet meant for her.

Is this really the first kind thing she's said to him? She thinks it might be.

"I'm just glad you're safe, Inspector."

There's a knot of something twisting in her chest, and it's getting worse, and she's not sure she can deal with it right now. With him. "Go home, Constable."

He looks like she's just told him to walk to Paris. "Sir?"

"You're wounded, Fraser. Go home. Rest. Heal. Your paperwork will still be here tomorrow."

"Sir, are you sure? - I'd prefer knowing you're secure."

"Vecchio's sending a few officers to my home tonight. I'll be fine."

Fraser nods, slowly.

"Go home, Fraser." Her voice softens, because the way he's looking at her - "I'll see you tomorrow."

* * *

Two days later, the cold muzzle of a gun is pressed to her temple, held by a man who looks entirely too capable of shooting her at any moment.

Fraser's very calm. Deliberate. He's talking the gunman down, keeping his attention away from Meg, all while circling the room, slowly drawing closer. She grits her teeth. _Fraser_. This isn't a grizzly bear. Or a walrus. Or whatever he used to deal with up in the Arctic.

"Fraser -"

The gunman growls, whipping her across the face with his pistol. Meg stumbles. Her face stings; she can feel hot blood starting to stream down her forehead. "Shut up, bitch," he hisses.

Fraser catches her eyes. He looks personally offended. Seriously? Is _bitch_ really more offensive than a gun to the head?

The man grabs her hair, pulling her head back, pressing the gun to her throat. He's shouting something, some profanity-laced tirade. She can't understand a word of it. Blood is starting to trickle into her eyes, and the two policemen across the room are looking nervous.

She looks back at Fraser. His eyes flick to hers, and without a single word, she knows what he's telling her.

_It's going to be okay_.

The gunman's tense, worked up. He knows he's got no exit. Meg steels herself. This is when a criminal's the most dangerous: when he's trapped.

He's yelling at Fraser, who's baiting him now. She holds her breath.

"Sir -"

"Shut up!"

"Sir, the woman needs -"

"I swear to _God_ -"

"You need to let her go."

"Shut _up -_"

It finally works. The gunman swings the gun towards Fraser, giving Meg the split second she needs to wrench his arm and knock the gun away.

The man backhands her so hard she almost blacks out. Her face hits the wall, hard, and she drops, collapsing into a heap, her head spinning; she can hear sounds of a struggle, but it takes too long for her to focus.

By the time she hears Fraser's voice again, he's kneeling beside her. "Inspector! Ma'am. Can you hear me?" She blinks fuzzily, looking up at his concerned face. He touches her forehead, very gently. "Inspector. Your head is bleeding. I think you might have a concussion. Can you tell me your name?"

She swallows, blinking slowly. "Meg. Thatcher."

"That's very good, ma'am. Do you know where you are?"

"Chicago." Ugh. And hell, it feels like.

"Good. All right. All right." He runs his fingers lightly over her scalp, checking for further injury, before carefully helping her up to a more seated position. She shuts her eyes for just a moment, dazed, leaning into the broad, solid warmth of his chest. He smells good. She doesn't know how, but he smells good. "It's all right, Inspector. It's over."

Her eyes keep flickering shut. Her head throbs.

"I know it's difficult, ma'am, but I need you to try and stay awake. The ambulance is on the way."

She sucks in a long breath. "Fraser -"

"That's good, ma'am. That's good. Just stay with me." His voice is low, soothing. She breathes him in. Everything hurts.

_Thank you, Fraser_.

She feels him slip his hand into hers, curling his fingers around her palm, squeezing gently. She squeezes back. It's too hard to talk. She can feel herself shaking, though she doesn't know if it's just panic or relief or something more serious. But Fraser pulls her close, sheltering her body with his.

"I know it hurts, Inspector. Just breathe." She thinks she feels him stroking her hair, which he probably shouldn't, but she's too tired and limp to object, and it's the only thing that feels good. Her stomach is knotted with panic and fear and everything else hurts. "They're almost here."

She squeezes his hand, takes in a shaky breath, and blocks out everything, all the chaos, everything except the sound of his voice.

* * *

The doctor finally releases her after a CT scan comes out clean. The head injury isn't serious; no brain bleed, no signs of neurological trouble, and she's not nauseated or slurring words. The tests all come back fine, though the doctor informs her the bruising on her temple and her cheek is going to remain a truly spectacular display of hues for a while.

Fraser drives them back to her place, parks immaculately equidistant between the yellow lines, and gives her his arm to walk her to her door. She leans on him more than she wants to. But Meg's utterly wiped out. The adrenaline is long gone, and her whole body feels limp. Fraser politely sits on her couch, wolf at his feet, while she takes a quick shower and changes into sweats.

When she comes back out, he's buried in her copy of _Sunshine Sketches of a Little Town_. Her lips twitch. He's a book nerd. Somehow, that's not surprising.

He's always looked more at ease in his uniform than anyone she's ever worked with. If anyone ever lived and breathed RCMP, it's him. He's tidy and immaculate in his shirtsleeves, his brown jacket draped carefully over the arm of the sofa, his tie loosened. It's a strangely intimate picture. Domestic. Comfortable.

He looks up from the book; his eyes meet hers, he smiles, and her whole body is flooded with warmth.

She clears her throat, rubbing her neck self-consciously. "I appreciate your bringing me home, Fraser, but you don't have to stay here."

He looks up from his book, and to his credit, he doesn't bat an eye at her cozy, sloppy clothes. "With all due respect, ma'am, I'd really prefer to stay, in case you need something. At least for a bit."

She opens her mouth to tell him _no_, but the look on his face stops her. His eyes are desperate, longing, and she realizes he's still set to protect her. He's still bound and determined to do his duty. Even now.

But she knows him well enough now. She understands it. There's a strong part of him that needs to protect someone, anyone who'll let him. It's the part that's been quietly languishing since the day he was thrown out of his native land for doing the right thing.

She used to think he was just a troublemaker. Just a wildling so set in his ways that he could never acclimate.

But it's so much more than that.

"All right. You can stay." His eyes warm, and she can't help but smile. "I see you've found my books."

He immediately leaps into his default mode: apology. "I didn't mean to - I hope I'm not prying, ma'am, I just -"

"Read all you want, Constable. I'm going to take a nap."

He nods. "Very good, Inspector. If you need anything, I'm here."

She pauses, about to turn for her bedroom, when she gets a good look at his hand, curled around the spine of the book. His knuckles are bruised and split, covered with dried scabs. They look fresh. Her stomach knots. How did that happen?

Meg meets his eyes. He looks - embarrassed? That's not it. Something -

Oh.

That blank moment between her hitting the floor and Fraser coming to her side. Sounds of a struggle.

"How bad did he look?" she asks quietly.

"Ma'am?"

"When you were done with him."

Fraser's eyes widen. But he knows she's figured it out.

"I did what I had to do, sir."

* * *

She wakes with a start, breathing hard. Fraser's leaning over her, one hand on her shoulder, concern in his eyes. "Inspector. Ma'am, are you all right?"

"Mmm? Fine. I'm fine." She's half-awake, but her whole body is tense, her muscles taut, her face thinly covered with sweat. "Is something wrong?"

"I'm very sorry to barge in, ma'am. You were - shouting. In your sleep. I - I was worried, I'm sorry, I shouldn't -"

"It's all right," she cuts him off, scrubbing a hand over her face. Her heart is pounding. She doesn't remember the dream, but it's not hard to guess what it was. "It must have been a nightmare. I'm fine."

She's tired, groggy, and her filterless brain is reading entirely too much into the softness in his blue eyes as he hovers by her bed. She's not even abashed at his presence here, in her bedroom. Somewhere between him tackling her out of a bullet's path and cradling her in his arms till the paramedics came, she's -

- confused. Her feelings are confused.

"Can you tell me the first five prime ministers, ma'am?"

She blinks. "You know the doctors said you don't have to do this."

"Just being cautious, Inspector."

Meg sighs. "Uh. Macdonald. Mackenzie, Abbott, Thompson. And - Bowell."

"Outside of MacDonald's non-consecutive second term, that's correct. Very good." Fraser takes her face in his hands, and her breath catches. He gently tips her head up to his, and for a very real moment, she thinks he might kiss her.

"Your eyes look well-focused, ma'am. I don't think there's anything to worry about." He brushes his fingers very delicately over the bruises on her face, whisper-light, barely touching her. "Does that hurt?"

"No."

He lets her go, and she feels the strangest sense of loss.

The wolf trots in, looking back and forth between them, and makes a soft whimpering noise. Fraser scratches his head and looks up at her apologetically.

"I'm sorry, ma'am. It seems Diefenbaker wants to stay in here, with you. Is that all right?"

She looks down at the wolfdog, who noses her hand, licking her fingers briefly before sitting down beside her bed.

"Why?"

"Instinct." Fraser offers a soft smile. "Wolves are highly protective. He seems to have attached himself to you."

Not unlike a certain handsome constable, then.

"He can stay."

* * *

The next time she wakes up, feeling much more rested, it's to Diefenbaker nosing her hand again and Fraser's voice, soft and low, at the door. "Inspector?"

"_Maintiens le droit_."

The door leans open, and Fraser cautiously pokes his head in. "I beg your pardon?"

She smiles wryly. "I assumed your next question was the RCMP motto."

He grins, his face lighting up with the smile that takes her breath away. "It's just a precaution, ma'am, but may I -"

She lets him check her eyes again because he's a mother hen, and it's his way of trying to help, even though it's unnecessary and they both know it. His particular brand of selfless, determined loyalty is something she's never experienced. And now he's taking care of her, treating her like she's this precious thing, and it's something she's not used to.

And all the distance she's tried to put between them, her flinty attitude, her determined efforts to push him away - they were just her futile resistance to the inevitable.

So now she's staring up at Fraser, her head spinning, but he doesn't seem to realize the epiphany that's just turned her world upside down. He's turning her face words his again, peering into her eyes, and she has to hold her breath. It would be so easy. Just a few inches, just -

"Ma'am, if you're feeling up to it, Detective Vecchio is here. He would like to ask you a few questions."

* * *

Meg's pleasantly surprised to find that Ray Vecchio seems to have shelved his usual prickly attitude towards her, at least for now.

"Did you have any idea he might get violent? Any clue that he would try to attack you?"

"Nothing." She sighs. "You're not going to make some snide remark about the legions of volunteers lining up to finish the job for him?"

"No. No one deserves this." He shakes his head. "I mean, sure. I don't like it when you bust my boy Fraser's balls over stupid crap. _I _think you treat him like scum, and I know he deserves better. But for whatever reason -" Vecchio shrugs - "he respects you. He says you're worth the effort."

It hurts to hear. She knows Vecchio's been referring to her as _the Dragon Lady_. And she can't honestly say it's entirely inaccurate. "He's a good man."

The detective looks up at her, surprised. Like he wasn't expecting her to say something kind. Or maybe he's still waiting for for the barb. "Yeah. He is."

"Detective, I wanted to - to ask you. After - after he threw me, did -" she takes a long breath - "Fraser went after him, didn't he?"

Vecchio nods soberly.

"How bad was it?"

"The truth?"

"Please."

Vecchio shuts his notebook and sits back in his chair. "I've never seen him like that. He looked like he was going to kill that guy." Her chest gets tight. "It took two of us to drag him off. I told him it was over. That you needed him. It almost seemed like he didn't hear me at first. But then he saw you weren't moving, and he went straight for you."

She shuts her eyes.

"Inspector. It's none of my business. But Fraser? He cares about you. I think -" Vecchio fixes her with a keen look - "He's defended you from the very beginning. I think he sees through whatever this act is you feel the need to put on."

Meg stares at Vecchio, startled.

Did he have this figured out before she did?

* * *

Fraser, who obligingly made himself scarce while Meg and Vecchio talked, soon reappears, having made tea. Vecchio excuses himself, leaving Meg sitting at her kitchen table with the most confusing, frustrating, loyal man she's ever met. And a wolf sitting on her feet.

And a heartbeat hammering in her chest, because she feels like suddenly she understands what's happening.

She curls her hands around the warm cup. Fraser's watching her quietly over his own cup, his eyes mild, his face perfectly calm.

"Fraser, I'd like to ask you something. Do you promise to answer it honestly?"

"Of course."

"Even if you think the answer's something I don't want to hear?"

His eyes widen, but he slowly nods. "I - yes. I will."

Meg swallows. She's not exactly sure how to ask this. Because she thinks she knows the answer.

"I know that - that I've been - particularly difficult with you." She bites her lip. "Do you resent me?"

It's not exactly what she wants to ask. But the real question, the one thing she really desperately needs to know, is something she can't ask. No matter how warmly he looks at her. There's a line, and the question caught on her lips is absolutely over it.

"No, ma'am. I don't resent you."

She knows he's being honest - Benton Fraser lacks any capacity to lie in a convincing manner - but the specificity of his answer doesn't escape her. "But you did." Her chest tightens.

"No." At her incredulous look, Fraser ducks his head, scratching at his eyebrow. "I - I know we didn't quite - understand each other at first. But - I know, Inspector, that I had become accustomed to - to doing things my own way. You were the first superior I'd had, in some time, who challenged me. And -" he pauses for a moment - "I've been frustrated with myself. I - I don't intend this to sound conceited, ma'am, but I'm not used to failing. And it really seems like - like all I've done, thus far, is fail you."

She suddenly realizes just how seriously he took all those dry cleaning runs. _Dry cleaning_. She did it to test him, and the man who saved her from a bullet is disappointed at himself for letting her sweater get singed.

He shrugs, taking a long sip from his tea. "Although, I suppose a constable from the Yukon wouldn't be prepared to deal with Ottawa politics. I was over my head, really. I shouldn't have been surprised."

His casual tone cuts even sharper than the words.

Meg finds her voice. It's less steady than she wants it to be. "Is that what you think of me?"

Ottawa politics.

She's been called _bitch._ And more creative things. In more than one language. But this? Benton Fraser thinks she's just a cold-hearted political snake from headquarters?

He's watching her, clearly seeing the look on her face, and his brow is furrowed in confusion. "Ma'am? I didn't mean to upset you."

She almost says _I'm not upset_, but right now she's at Fraser levels of inability to lie convincingly. And either she's an idiot for reading actual affection in what's clearly just duty for him, or -

"Fraser, I'm - I'm not made of stone."

His eyes widen, and seemingly without thinking, he reaches for her hand on the table, covering it with his. "Inspector. No. I'm very much aware of that."

"You are?"

He smiles. "I know that you're a strong woman. And I know that you work very hard to hide your sensitivity, to present an intimidating face to the world. I know that sometimes Diefenbaker sneaks into your office, and you've given him pieces of granola bars." Her face is getting warm. She'd thought he didn't know about that. "And - and I know you have reading glasses, ma'am."

"What?"

"Forgive me for saying it, but it's fairly obvious. I don't know why you find it necessary to hide them." His mouth quirks up in a half smile. Meg just stares at him, her cheeks hot. How long has he known? "You don't always take them off as quickly as you think you do."

"You never said anything."

He shrugs. "I assumed you felt self-conscious. Though I don't know why. They look nice."

He gives her this sheepish smile that she just doesn't even know what to do with, and he does that thing he does, scratching his eyebrow, all befuddled, and it's reassuring to know he's as flustered as she is right now.

She's trying to figure out what to say, but for once, Benton Fraser beats her to the punch.

"I know you have a heart. And I think it beats just the same as mine."

Without even knowing it, they've been leaning towards each other, until there's really no space between them.

"You think it does?"

"Yes."

Her heart is pounding, thready and erratic in her chest. "What about right now?"

"It's racing."

Meg licks her lips absently. "Out of control?"

His eyes flicker down to her mouth, and his lips part.

"It's a runaway."

It's just a moment, a single breath, and then it catches fire because they're kissing and everything just goes white.

It's perfect.

He's slow, careful, so exquisitely gentle. She feels his hand come to her jaw, his thumb tracing lightly over her cheek. He's no fumbling boy, no clumsy oaf. He's - just -

- _perfect._

He steals one last, sweet kiss before he breaks away. Her eyes flutter open, and she finds him looking at her with the most open, unmasked tenderness she's ever seen.

"Inspector -" he swallows, hard, and she sees him make some decision - "Meg -"

It's the first time he's ever called her by her first name. Her heart twists hard in her chest. His eyes are questioning, hesitant, shining with the thing they're not allowed to discuss. The thing she'd been pretending wasn't a thing.

The thing that might be more dangerous than a bullet.

Fraser - Benton? Ben? - takes her hand in both of his, tracing light circles on her palm, and her mouth goes dry. Heat is blossoming through her veins; it's the lightest, faintest touch, barely there, and it's setting her skin on fire.

He clears his throat, flicking a cautious look up at her. "I'd like to kiss you again."

He's not stupid. Meg knows what he's really saying. He's perfectly aware that a romantic relationship between them could never be simple. That it could only ever work if they trust each other.

He's saying he thinks she's worth it.

They shouldn't.

She shouldn't.

"Kiss me again."


End file.
